


Fish and Guests, Common Threads

by aurilly



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 11:45:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: As much as Marcus lies awake thinking of Esca, he could never take advantage of a slave. Esca takes matters into his own hands when a demanding guest to the villa threatens to avail himself of more of Uncle Aquila's hospitality than has formally been offered.





	Fish and Guests, Common Threads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivyfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyfic/gifts).



“I bought you a toga.”

At this, Marcus looked up at his uncle sitting across the table.

“Thank you,” he replied automatically. And then, “Why?”

“Callecticus, one of the highest-ranking legate in Rome, is making a tour of Britain.”

“Do you know him?” Marcus asked. 

“This is not Callecticus’s first tour over the years. As the largest villa on this stretch of the northern road, he has made it a habit to stay here. I am… Well, it’s considered an honor to host him. It will be a great thing for you to meet him.”

Marcus knew his uncle well enough to hear the true meaning of these words. He understood that his uncle despised this Callecticus, but was not in a position to refuse hospitality. He understood that his uncle wanted Marcus to make an extra effort to be sociable, diplomatic, and charming, qualities whose performance exhausted Marcus more than his recently begun sparring afternoons with Esca.

As one of the most wealthiest Romans in this part of the world, Uncle Aquila often entertained guests, for anything from a simple luncheon to a week-long stay. For each visit, Marcus had painfully, dutifully, hobbled to the villa’s entrance to greet them, keeping himself upright by sheer force of will in order not to shame his uncle. A simple but dignified welcome had been the most interaction expected of him before Stephanos—and more recently Esca—helped him back to his room.

But now… Marcus had just been riding. His current clothes reeked with the healthy stench and stains of sweat and mud. The boar on the table had been killed by a spear thrown from his hand. In the weeks since his second surgery, Marcus’s health had improved immeasurably. He was certainly well enough to emulate and support his uncle. 

“I have become unaccustomed to high society,” he said, “but I will do my best to make you proud, uncle.” Marcus looked at his dirty tunic and braccae and remembered how his uncle had opened the conversation. “But cannot these be washed? Why do I need a toga?”

“You are no longer a centurion. Neither are you a low-born freeman.”

Marcus was well enough to sit on a horse and throw a spear, but he was not yet well enough to leave in as dramatic a huff as he sometimes wished. The screech of his chair along the stone floor sounded long and slow, and he winced as he got to his feet. 

“Is what I am not enough? Must I act the part of something I am not?” he asked, knowing already that it was not, at least in the eyes of the world.

“What you are is my nephew, and a good man. That is more than enough for me. But for the legate...”

"If your guest is of such importance that we must all dress to greater advantage, I should hope that you have told the kitchen slaves to prepare something more appetizing than cold fish soup."

"You shall pick the menu yourself, if it pleases you. Or kill another boar. I'm making this your official introduction to Calleva society. I’ve been looking forward to this day." 

Marcus could hardly continue to act affronted in the face of his uncle’s well-meaning affection, so he sighed. “Yes, uncle.”

As he left the room, Ucle Aquila called, “I have bought a new tunic for Esca, as well. Stephanos says he has so far refused to wear anything but the one I bought him in, no matter. However, if the order came from you…”

“Yes, uncle.”

* * *

Esca had already removed Marcus’s dirty clothes, poured the water for Marcus to wash his face, wiped Marcus’s feet, rubbed and wrapped his bad leg, and led him to sit on the side of the bed. There was nothing more for him to do, nothing further Marcus technically needed. Yet Marcus continued to delay before dismissing him, and not for his usual—eternally unspoken—reasons. He delayed to the point where confusion had begun to creep into the otherwise confident blankness of Esca’s downcast face.

The change in Esca between the their private excursions and the villa was stark, and had recently begun to cause Marcus an ache more painful than the one in his still-healing leg. In the fields, on a hunt, or during a sparring session, Esca beamed with life. The spark that Marcus had striven to save that day in the arena shone brightly. But every evening, Esca returned to stewing but silent servitude. Marcus hated that he had saved Esca only for this.

“Will that be all, _domine_?” The edge to Esca’s voice—as sharp as the planes of his face and angles of his bones—conveyed more haughtiness than outright rudeness ever could. 

Marcus still heard it, and, as he did day after day, he ignored it. He would never have ignored it in a soldier, but he made endless exceptions for Esca, to Stephanos’s daily sniffs of disapproval. However, tonight, his uncle had requested that he give Esca an order, and not even the soft fondness that had been festering into weakness would not prevent him from complying.

“My uncle is entertaining soon. He has requested…” Marcus stopped, tried again. He had never owned a slave before. He told himself that, no matter the means of his acquisition, Esca was _his_ , in every way, except for the ways he secretly, shamefully wished. As a master, he had the right to demand something as simple as this, something that would bring Esca no dishonor, that should, in fact, bring him comfort. He began again. “My uncle is preparing to receive a very important guest. We must all, including me, appear at our best.”

“Yes, domine.”

“I’ll have to wear a toga. You are to wear new and clean clothes for the occasion. These have already been procured.”

“There was no need. I can wash mine.”

“Why are you so attached to it? What makes it so special?”

At this, Esca looked up. “It is special because it is mine. I gambled with one of the gladiators—Surtarius the Strong, the champion of all of Londinium—and won. This was my prize.”

And now Marcus felt something like shame for having fantasized all these days about tearing that ugly tunic off Esca’s back, about shredding it with his nails to get to the warm skin underneath, for hating the way the sleeve hid half of that tantalizing blue tattoo. For this tunic, now that Esca had thrown his father’s knife at Marcus’s feet, was likely the last thing Esca had to call his own. 

“It will only be for a few days,” Marcus said kindly, “and then you can resume wearing your own.”

“Yes, domine. Will that be all?” Marcus had become accustomed to Esca’s badly fitting mask of submission, but not since the day uncle Aquila had called Esca into the room had Marcus seen such a searing flash of rage thwart his features.

Esca was gone almost before Marcus had formally dismissed him.

* * *

It took all of Marcus’s newly recovered strength not to fall asleep at this longer than normal supper. It took all of his never-weakened will to keep from throttling the man until his grossly protruding eyes fell entirely out of his 

bulbous head. Never had Marcus been subjected to such a sustained stream of flatulence. Not even in Rome, the nexus of pompous prattlers, had he been forced to smile through a hedgehog’s supply of little darts—about Calleva’s backwardness, about the not-quite ideal situation of his uncle’s villa, about the need for more salt in Stephanos’s pigeon stew, about even Marcus’s now famous battle against the Britons. Even polite and polished Uncle Aquila’s patience had begun to wear thin. 

Marcus was trying his best to keep his attention respectfully focused on their guest, but his eyes kept wandering to Esca, even more than was normal, and not merely because he looked very handsome in his crisp new clothes. Esca always stood coiled, like a lion crouching, but tonight he seemed even smaller, more alert, frightened in a way Marcus had not thought possible. He kept to the shadows of the patio and delayed refilling Marcus’s cup. Normally, Marcus would not have minded, but the tedium of the dinner had caused him to wish for wine with a desperation he hardly ever felt. Esca’s odd reticence reached a the point where Marcus had to physically summon him once or twice

Callecticus’s piercing eyes fixed on Esca during one of these moments. 

“That slave looks familiar,” he wheezed, interrupting yet another dull, barb-ridden tale. “I remember seeing a gladiator like him once, not too long ago. Small, thin, quick. Hacked his opponent’s foot off, or very nearly, with speed such as I’ve never seen. Deliciously savage, these Britons.” He licked his wine-stained lips with a lasciviousness that caused Marcus to shiver on the otherwise warm night.

“It is a coincidence you should mention it,” Uncle Aquila said. “I did indeed purchase him from the arena a few months ago, though likely not the one you saw.”

“A gladiator? Truly? And how did a gladiator come to be filling your cups? Lackadaisically, I might add. You ought to have him whipped.”

“He is a very good body slave in the ways that count. He has become most invaluable to me,” Marcus said, rising to Esca’s defense, and then flinching, because the part of him that wanted to be Esca’s friend—that wanted to be more—knew that this was the last thing Esca wanted said about him. 

Callecticus’s eyes gleamed unpleasantly, and he sprawled back in his chair, ready to hear more of this newly interesting development, or to launch into yet another tiresomely self-aggrandizing speech. Marcus could not tell, but he would have put wagers on the latter. Callecticus assessed Marcus with more interest than before.

“I’m impressed. I had not thought you, the son of the Aquila who lost the Eagle, could possibly possess the mettle to master a gladiator and turn him into a body slave. Come closer, boy,” he said, gesturing at Esca. “Let me look at you.”

With a visible frown and his shoulders hunched to hide their strength, Esca approached, not quite close, but into more of the light.

“By the gods, it _is_ him, the very same that I watched defeat five warriors twice his size, one of which was a Northman. With the slightest bit more hair on his chin. But the markings on his arm are unmistakable. Were you the gladiator I saw a year or so ago in Durnovaria? Answer me truly, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus swung around to look at Esca, shocked. His Esca, apparently a champion, the vanquisher of an entire line-up of gladiators.

“It was the most extraordinary thing,” Uncle Aquila said. “My nephew here, like the born leader he is, swayed the entire crowd to this young Briton’s side. It was the first time I’d seen him interested in anything since his arrival here.” 

This was humiliating, not just for Esca, but for Marcus, too, who felt little but embarrassment for having displayed his reactions and desires so publicly that day. He knew what it had looked like—and had, in actuality, been—to his uncle and to everyone else. Marcus was about to interrupt and swerve the subject, but Callecticus leaned forward and inquired about the particulars. Marcus slumped in his chair, preparing himself for the fifth retelling of what had become one of his Uncle’s favorite stories. 

Meanwhile, Esca disappeared. 

“It takes iron will and stern presence to bridle a gladiator,” Callecticus said, and Marcus could tell he meant it as a compliment even though the words made his skin crawl, with shame and regret and something more disgusting than that. “Only a real man can, ahem, master a fighter like that, bend him to his will. Have you found breaking him as satisfying as I have with my slaves? Taken pleasure in the full range of delights such a slave might offer?”

Marcus, as often happened in these situations, found himself at a loss for words. All the things he wanted to say flew from his mind as he gaped at this awful man, with his luxurious toga and soft arms that had never wielded a sword. He knew this dinner was an opportunity to reclaim some family honour, to impress an important legate and get word of his character to the highest men in the Empire. But he could not in any honesty claim any of what Callecticus had asked—heavy-handed mastery, ‘breaking anyone’, and certainly not pleasure, since he doubted Callecticus referred to the pleasure of the hunts he and Esca took.

“I have found that kindness has been a sufficient motivator for encouraging him to fulfill my needs, which are not great. My uncle was very generous, but I neither needed nor wanted a slave. I could have made do with intermittent help from Stephanos.”

Uncle Aquila was too self-contained to sigh in front of his guest, but it was a near thing. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus could see Esca hunch even more into himself than before. And for his part, Callecticus began to look acquisitive in a way that was mystifying.

* * *

Marcus was still taking his wine very watered, per the surgeon’s orders. Therefore, he had barely been affected by the evening’s long spell of imbibing. But he felt drunk, confused, when Esca lingered longer during his nightly duties. Far from being man enough to master a gladiator, Marcus could barely claim mastery of himself when Esca’s fingers brushed against the top of his braccae while helping to remove his tunic. He shivered when Esca stepped in close, practically pushing himself against Marcus’s chest. 

“Are you cold?” Esca asked, with more life in his eye than Marcus had seen since Callecticus’s arrival.

“Yes,” Marcus lied, but not entirely. 

The lean but strong lines of Esca's arms struck Marcus anew, as they did every day, but tonight he contemplated them with more thoughtfulness. These arms had bested the five best fighters in the arena of Durnovaria, he thought to himself, marveling. 

Marcus had never doubted Esca's deadliness--the flash in his eyes was anything but impotent--but he had never stopped to think about it practically, the ways in which Esca might fight, what skills he possessed. The only fight Marcus had ever watched him in had not been a fight at all. Now he realized, despite all the tumultuous feelings in his heart, how little he knew of Esca. 

"You killed Magnus the Magnificent?" he asked as he regretfully extricated himself from Esca’s nearness and stepped away from the washing bowl. 

"Yes," Esca said, from entirely too close.

Marcus could not make sense of it, but the continued proximity dizzied him in a way that all the wine of the evening had not. He would have stepped back, but the backs of his knees were already flush against the side of the bed. 

"I saw him once," Marcus said thickly. "In Rome, perhaps two years ago. He was fighting a Greek champion. He was three times your size. How did you..."

"He and the rest of the champions in that circuit were idiots, but Magnus was the worst of them. He bullied the younger slaves, hurt them before fights so that they would appear to lesser advantage. He mocked them and laughed at their homesickness. He fixed his fights and took bribes. I never liked the fights, but I enjoyed this one. I ran laps around him until he was tired—he’d always been too pompous to train—and then threw my knife into his heart from halfway across the arena. He never even touched me." Esca smiled ruefully. "I was merely the appetizer in that fight, an untested new slave, hardly meant to face a champion of Magnus’s stature. But I finished off his three friends before him, one by one, in the same manner, with the goal of fighting him. The crowd continued to call for my presence, so they had to keep me in. I killed him, and the younger boys were never again mocked or bullied, not while I was there.”

This was the most Marcus had ever heard Esca speak at one time. However, it was also the first time Marcus or anyone else had asked Esca a question requiring so many words. He made a note to think of more questions in future, not only to learn more about the man, but to hear that lovely brogue. 

Marcus could picture it, the crowd cheering for the hulking champions, only to have this precise, clever young Briton best them, one by one. He pictured Esca's bony fingers gripping the handle of his spear as he searched for the men's weaknesses and calculated his aim. He’d probably played with it, stroked it, stroking...

Marcus abruptly sat down on the bed. If anyone were to ask, he could say it was because of his leg. Never before had be felt glad for the injury.

"Why did you ask?” Esca all but growled at the perceived slights and stepped between Marcus’s open knees. “Did you think me weak? A cheat?" 

"No. You would never cheat. And I have trained enough men to know that brawn does not always accompany strength. I also know that speed and agility, qualities that larger men often lack, are just as important in a fight. I have seen you ride. I have seen you wield a spear. You have killed enough rabbits with me that I know that your aim is true. And more than that, I have seen intelligence in your face. I merely wanted to hear the tale of how you combined these strengths."

Marcus spoke only the simple truth, with no intent to flatter. Nevertheless, this speech seemed to please Esca, for his whole posture relaxed. Only now that it was gone did Marcus see that he'd been poised as if about to run. Esca pressed even closer stepping now between Marcus's legs. 

"There are some, like your uncle's guest, who think it quite a thing to be a gladiator. Who think, therefore, that it is an even greater thing to conquer one. You have never struck me as one of those men."

"I have never liked the arena.”

“You are a strange Roman, then. I have never met one who did not enjoy a good contest.”

“There are rarely stakes in the gladiator ring. The story you just told me is an exception, as I can tell you were fighting for the sake of the other boys,” Marcus said. “A man should fight _for_ something. Not because he is commanded to, or for money. I have no desire to watch men die for nothing. And the day I saw you, it was at the request of my uncle. I seemed to me that you did not belong there at all.”

“And where else did I belong? Here?”

“No, though…” Marcus swallowed. He would not finish the sentence, he would not unburden himself.

They stared at one another, Marcus gazing longingly up from where he sat, and Esca tilting his head down. 

"I had never heard that story about your campaign in Gaul campaign before tonight,” Esca finally said. “It was quite exciting. Your plan to have the men feint towards the woods was quite clever.”

“I know you have seen me do little but eat and sleep and piss into my chamber pot, but I did know what I was doing.”

“I never doubted it. You eat with great determination, sleep even more solemnly, and piss with great strength,” Esca replied, smiling on one side of his mouth.

Marcus knew that any other master would strike a slave for such mocking words and even more teasing tone. But he was too glad to converse with Esca—with anyone—to say anything that might make it stop. So, instead, he teased back, “I thought you hated Rome, hated me, hated everything that Rome touches. How could you enjoy the tale of yet another Roman victory?”

“I do hate Rome. But if there is one thing I, and all true Britons, hate more than Rome, it is Gaul. Stories of Gaulish defeat will ever be welcome to me. And…” Esca gulped and drew, if possible, even closer, speaking practically into Marcus’s hair now, pressing his hands on Marcus’s shoulders. “I do not hate you.”

“You…”

But Esca dropped to his knees, lips parted and shiny in the candlelight. His hands slid down from Marcus’s shoulders to rest on his knees and all of Marcus’s intended retorts melted away.

"Esca, what are you doing?"

"I pledged to serve you."

"I have not asked for this service."

"Not aloud, but... I am not blind."

" This... I know it is common practice but..." Marcus had trouble expressing himself even at the best of times. Now, with Esca's hands hot on his side, kneading into the muscle there, and Esca's warm breath counterbalancing the breeze from the unshuttered window. 

“You are no common Roman. That much has always been clear.” Esca gave another of those heart-melting half smiles. “And I have been glad of it. If I had to pledge myself to a Roman, if I had to be owned by a Roman, I am glad it was one as uncommon as you. If I die tomorrow, I will die slightly less wretched knowing that.”

The teasing that had previously tinged Esca’s voice had disappeared entirely, replaced by a sad resignation.

“What is all this talk of death?” Marcus asked. “We face nothing tomorrow, neither of us. Merely another day of entertaining Callecticus.”

“Yes, exactly,” Esca mumbled. “Which is why I… Sometimes even I wonder how it happened, but…” Instead of trying to explain, he pulled at the waist of Marcus’s braccae. 

“Esca…” Marcus tried to interrupt, and to reclaim mastery over the moment. But then he felt Esca caress his already half-hard cock, and all that came out was a moan. A moan that extended when Esca pulled Marcus’s hand forward to touch his own hardness, full and thick and unmistakable.

“Do you think I would allow anyone to touch me if I didn’t want it? Do you think I would allow anyone to do so and live? I may be a slave but…”

“You never lost your dignity. It was part of what I saw that day.”

“Then see this.”

Marcus finally stopped fighting, and did.

* * *

Marcus woke alone the next morning. The sun was higher in the sky than he was accustomed to seeing at first glance, which meant he had slept longer than normal, likely because of the deep relaxation he had felt after… after everything. The morning was cool, but he felt warm all over. 

He found himself alone in the bed, and so looked into the corner, for Esca. He had questions that he’d lacked the wherewithal to ask the night before. Satisfying as finally getting to touch Esca had been, touching _everywhere_ , watching his cock slide inside him, hearing Esca’s moans, finally knowing what his face looked like when he came… The entire encounter had been pulled right out of Marcus’s lonely fantasies, and more. However, something, just at the end, had gone wrong. Marcus had wanted Esca to call out his name, not ‘domine’, with shamelessly indiscreet loudness. Luckily, Marcus had already come, spilling deep inside; otherwise, he might have flagged in disappointment.

Esca never used that title except to drip it with irony, but the moment had not felt ironic. Marcus could not bear the thought that it might be. In every other way, Esca had seemed pleased. He’d been the one to initiate everything, after all, ceding control only after successfully leading Marcus into it, as compellingly as a seasoned captain. 

Marcus wanted to ask what it had all meant, but Esca’s pallet was not only empty, it had been rolled away entirely. All of his morning ablutions had been arranged and his clothes laid out, but Esca was nowhere to be seen. 

He dressed himself and made his way to breakfast, where he was surprised to find only Callecticus and his body slaves (why a healthy man in the prime of his life needed multiple, Marcus could not see, and despised him for it).

“Good morning, sir,” Marcus said, with a clumsy bow before taking an awkward seat. “Have I risen too late to see my uncle?”

“Yes, he ate and went to town to extend personal invitations to tonight’s banquet.” Callecticus leaned forward and winked at Marcus, too full of mirth to mind the juice dripping from his orange into his beard. “I didn’t expect to see you up at all, after the night you had.”

Marcus could feel his face growing hot, and regretted the deep tan he had lost while in his sickbed, as it would have hidden the red evidence of his embarrassment. 

“I…”

“There is no shame in it. In fact, quite the opposite. Last night, I must confess, I was on my way to thinking you rather soft,” Callecticus said, with the insulting nonchalance of a man powerful enough to be able to say whatever he wanted to a man’s face without fear of reprisal. “For a centurion, and for a man of your military record, you seemed so weak and strange. Soft, really, talking of ‘kindness’. You owned a British gladiator, and seemed to have no interest in being his master in the ways that count.”

Marcus bit his tongue, for his uncle’s sake, and steeled himself. He could almost feel the jab about his father coming. If and when it did, he did not know if he would be able to contain his rage, high-ranking Roman legate guest and all. 

“Such a waste, it seemed,” Callecticus continued, “especially since breaking warriors into slaves is one of my greatest pleasures. And that gladiator of yours is as pretty as a Greek boy, only paler. A nexus of delights. You know, during dinner last night, I was making plans to ask your uncle for the use of your slave, since it seemed you were not man enough to avail yourself of him.

“My uncle may have purchased him but he is _my_ slave, not my uncle’s,” Marcus said, gripping his cup tightly enough to hurt. “Mine. Enquiries about him should go to me, not my…”

He trailed off, because he couldn’t believe his possessive rage was leading him to respond at all. He should have—had meant to—clamp down the notion entirely.

“I know that now, of course,” Callecticus said. “I learned the truth after we all retired. As did the rest of the house. The entire villa must have heard. I applaud you. You are thrice the man I had assumed, the way you had him gasping. After the insolent laziness you let him get away with at dinner, I had thought… Well, it is not often that I am proven wrong, but you did it.”

“He is not for loan, he is not…” Marcus inelegantly tries to impress, all while wishing he could command his face to stay cool as easily as he had commanded legions.

“I would not dream of asking, not now. There would be no fun in it, no triumph, not when he belongs to you so completely.” Callecticus leaned forward again and extended a hand that Marcus reluctantly, confusedly shook; all of his conversations lately had been taking strange directions. “You are a most interesting man, Marcus Flavius Aquila. I’ll have my eye on you.”

Marcus mumbled out some thanks, and then, flummoxed, made his excuses from the table. He’d barely eaten anything, but could not bear to sit there any longer.

On his way back to his room, he passed Esca, who must have been lurking out of sight but still within earshot. They could not speak, not with Callecticus and his other slaves so close, but Marcus could have sworn Esca beamed with something like relief.

* * *

Social obligations kept Marcus busy for most of the day, between a trip to the baths, followed by the grandest banquet his uncle had ever thrown. Over twenty guests came and shouldered some of the responsibility of listening to Callecticus’s tediously pompous stories. 

Marcus gave just enough outward proofs of participation to seem polite, but his mind remained elsewhere. Specifically, it remained wherever Esca might happen to be, whether ten feet away, or on the other side of town.

They were both kept too busy to talk, for Esca was needed to support the household even more than yesterday. Marcus, in his pride, had insisted that he could manage perfectly well on his own. As a result, he tired himself more than usual. So, by the time the party had ended and the guests departed, he was too weak to reach his quarters. His knees buckled and he could feel himself falling in the corridor. Just before he collapsed, he felt capable hands grab him by the underarm and hoist him back up.

“Apologies,” Esca said from behind him, over him. “If I had had my choice, I would have been at your side today.”

“It was my wish that you help Stephanos. It is all right. I am merely tired.”

“One day, you will push yourself too far,” Esca said as he supported Marcus through the doorway and into his bedroom.

“I do not mind, if it is for a good reason.”

“Were today’s exertions for a good reason?” Esca asked with a smile. It seemed that the day before had loosened his reticent tongue. All the inappropriately attractive insolence that had hitherto expressed itself only in flashes behind Esca’s eyes now spilled freely from his lips.

Marcus checked that the windows were shuttered and the door closed before answering, “No.” He corralled reserves of strength to stand on his own, and cupped Esca’s face. “Tell me. Last night… Did you know Callecticus’s intention? Is that why you came to me like that? Did you mean for him to hear? Was it merely a performance? Is that why you let your pleasure be heard, and why you called me…”

Marcus couldn’t bear to finish. The thought had tortured him all day, seeming worse and worse, poisoning every part of the joy he’d experienced the night before.

“It did not begin as such, no. But yes, I knew his intentions. I recognized him, too. That is why I hid all night. When he said he’d seen me in Durnovaria, he did not tell the full story. He paid the arena master to let him into the cells below, to have his pick of the gladiators. I watched him go from cell to cell, forcing himself on three different men—two of them mere boys, not the masterful conquests he boasted of to you. I could see in his eye the same gleam and desire for me. I could see that he was too stupid to see your worth, that he would think little of taking…” Esca sighed. 

“So then why…?”

“I knew I would either have to run away, which would break my vow to you, or kill myself, or him. Either way, I would die. I didn’t want to die without touching you, just once. And then, later on, towards the end, I saw a shadow passing by your door. I knew he was listening, and so I decided to have a little fun at his expense. I did not expect such a result. But it has turned out well.”

This was quite a lot for Marcus to take in. The idea that he had almost lost Esca, that Esca had been prepared to die rather than be forced, that Marcus had been his final wish. All doubt that Esca had truly wanted him had now vanished. There could be no stronger confirmation than this. His dismay transformed into joy, and, after placing a relatively chaste kiss on Esca’s lips, he gestured for them to move to the bed.

“This time, I would prefer you to whisper my name for joy, rather than call me ‘master’ for show.”

“As you wish, Marcus,” Esca said with in a low voice, and shivered at the promise of things to come.

“I do feel rather dishonest, though,” Marcus said as they tumbled together onto the hard mattress and began to pull at one another’s clothes. “Callecticus and his household now think of me as an imposing master who, through superior character and force of will, has conquered you, for the prize of your unlikely loyalty and desire.”

“Haven’t you though?”


End file.
